


Sevillana

by echoist



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Coquilles, Episode Related, Gen, Scent Kink, Scent Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoist/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's only a small thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sevillana

It's a small thing.

A package arrives early one morning; it's no intrusion, Will wasn't sleeping, anyway. The writing on the label is impeccable, a light, flowing script that he recognizes immediately. He unwraps the brown paper, runs his fingers along the crisp folded edges, and lays it aside. Inside, cushioned by a soft layer of linen, he find an oblong wooden box. Will lifts it in his hands, turning it around to view every angle, as if it were a particularly engaging puzzle.

Will finds the clasp, secreted away on the base behind a stylized carving of a wolf. A single glass bottle rests comfortably inside, reclining on a bed of dark green velvet. The label appears handwritten, the language familiar to him, but his mind refuses to make the proper connections to translate its meaning. Gallic, he thinks, and then immediately corrects himself. _F_ _rançais._

He lifts the bottle and delicately removes the substantial wooden choke. It's heavy, yet smooth against his palm, polished to a rich shade that reminds him of his grandmother's dining table. It was old when he first ran his fingers along the ridges and whorls decorating the legs, and the stopper has a similar feel in his hands. Memorable, as if weighted with the warmth of something long treasured.

Will hesitantly lifts the open bottle and takes a light breath through his nose, analyzing its contents. The pale green liquid inside smells like cedar and crisp autumn leaves beneath his feet, unexpectedly lightweight. He sees an early winter sky filling with clouds, and can almost hear the rustling of hooves finding their way through a barren wood. He feels the pale and distant sun against his skin, lending the faintest tease of illumination through stark and empty branches above.

He imagines a rough, snorted exhalation ruffling the hairs at his nape, and sees again his permanent haunt. The stag, contrast and consolation, leading him into shadows only to pursue him out the other side.

_Darkness into darkness_ , Will thinks, _the gateway to all understanding_.

 

He steps into the shower, allowing lukewarm streams of water to pound against his face and chest until his thinking settles into recognizable patterns. He brushes his teeth and runs a hand through his hair, glancing down at the reflection of the bottle in the mirror. It looks oddly at home amongst his collection of oddities and relics, balanced within a small dip on the warped wooden counter top. Will shaves a few days stubble from his chin and rubs his palm across the fresh, smooth skin revealed beneath. His hand pauses over the imposing wooden choke for a moment before opening the bottle and splashing a few drops against his skin. He breathes in deeply before replacing the top, his head clearing as the scent mingles with the chemistry of his skin. The curtains rustle gently in a breeze through the open bedroom window, and his mind opens like a series of rattling doors. 

 

Three days later, in Baltimore, Will paces a worn path across Doctor Lecter's office, his hands twisting against the air before grasping at his sides. He opens a book, and then closes it before making a full circuit of the room. They talk in circles, every question redirected while Hannibal maintains a respectful distance. Will's steps cease beside the couch and he perches on the edge without noticing, his eyes locked on a fading stripe of sunlight across the rug. Lightning crackles against Will's skin, the sought after connection at last secured. Hannibal adjusts, moving beside him to hear the formless words on Will's breath. They bear substance without disturbing the surface tension between them, and Hannibal leans marginally closer to breathe in the scent of the hunt. 

Will's fingertips brush the antlers of the wooden stag as he leaves, one hand on the office door while a key turns slowly in his mind. 'Thank you,' he says, his voice neutral, the words crisp as the snap of twigs beneath his feet. 'For the gift. I like it.'

'I know,' the doctor answers, returning the book to its proper place. 'And as always, Will, you are most welcome.' The skin at Will's throat tingles as he closes the door, the quiet scuffle of hooves at his back.

It's only a small thing, one cell of the larger iteration that branches and spirals out from the initial point of convergence. Will tastes ozone on the winter air and closes his mind to the persistent axiom that allows him to function and yet keeps him from his sleep; it's in the most trifling of details where the devil truly lies. 


End file.
